Cryptborn
by karl0336
Summary: Stories of Richard Cryptborn, a Death Knight in service of the Alliance. (Not quite sure what exactly. I'll try to update as often as possible. English isn't my native tongue. I have never played WoW.)


**Authors note:**

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I have never played WoW.

* * *

 ** _Cryptborn_**

 ** _Chapter 1_**

 _It was autumn._

Slight breeze toyed with the fallen leaves in the graveyard, wrapping them around the legs of the only person there. He didn't notice the wind, the cold, the dampness or rotting nature. He couldn't notice it, in fact-

Richard Cryptborn stared at his own empty tomb.

Well, maybe "stared" wasn't the right word for it. Staring would imply that one actually has eyes. He was rather just vaguely looking in the direction of the small stone mausoleum.

To think of the scene more, it wasn't technically even _his_ tomb. It had been made for Richard Goldheart, a brave, noble man (noble-nobleman? Noble aristocrat? Noble- whatever. Why was he even thinking about that?) who had valiantly fought against the Scourge and the Cult of the Dammned in the beginning of the Third War. So far up north, his lands were one of the first to truly be attacked. He and his trained militia, riding on armored horses had cut through zombies and ghouls like a knife through butter, protecting the people fleeing south, away from the horrors of the Plague. Not many of them survived, of course, but enough to make a slight difference. Goldheart had chosen to stay in Lordaeron and despite his clear idiocy (or bravery, if you liked that word more) somehow managed to survive until it truly seemed the Scourge was close to defeat, when news of prince Arthas's success reached them. He never saw the return of the cursed prince, dying from a poisoned blade, buried his own loving people (or what remained from them). A good, even a great man was put into that tomb, laid to rest.

The problem with making enemies of the undead sort is that they keep a grudge for a very long time. Even after they die. Even after _you_ die.

And the being broke the seal, was risen from his coffin was much, much different than old Goldheart. A Death Knight, enemy of everything alive, a weapon forged by the Lich King himself. Without memories, existing only to fulfill His commands.

But to think of it, he had inherited some traits from the human he had been. Loyalty, for example. He wasn't freed at the Battle of Lights Hope, but rather when Arthas died (something nearly everyone in Acherus was always very eager to point out). He was apparently also very naïve, just like the late knight, believing things to happen like they do in stories.

Why was he still here?

Sure, it was somewhat amusing to revisit the place he first saw after rising. The cold, granite womb that had given birth to him. But what was he expecting? Some pang of knowledge about the life he had only read about? Some idea what to do with his un-life? Knowing who and what he now was? Some sign perhaps?

He had stood there for hours. One good thing about undeath is that you always have time to spare. He could just keep standing there. Not that anyone cared.

People believe in stories, gliches, tropes. The good thing is that the universe does so as well. The autumn wind gathered strength and broke a hole into the dense covering of clouds, allowing a ray of light to shimmer on the remains of the rock coffin.

And something gleamed back.

Two golden, dusty coins. Richard weighted them in his hand, rubbing his empty eye sockets. He pocketed them.

"Good enough."

He left as the clouds took over the sky again. Only the wind moved in the empty graveyard.

….

Shadow of corruption still loomed over the Plaguelands, despite the efforts of Druids and Paladins. Weather was always gloomy and dark, undead still lurked deep in the woods where even the Dark Rangers of the Banshee Queen treaded with care in fear of drawing attention to themselves. But after such a long time, it felt normal. For the knights of the Ebon Blade and the Forsaken, it was almost lovely, place where they belonged. Humans that still lived there kept complaining about ghouls and ghosts, but then again, was there anything they didn't whine about?

Richard guided his still-living horse off the road and into the woods. Or rather, funguses. Giant mushrooms were still competing with the trees, unwilling to give up their place. The rider wasn't alone, whispers and shadows rustled in the undergrowth. But it wasn't them he was looking for.

A criminal named Boris something-son had pulled of a daring escape from the prisons of Tyr's Hand (though seeing the state the Risen had left the place, he probably just walked out from a huge hole in a wall or something) and injured a few people and finally stole a horse in the process. Against all common sense, Boris had decided that the safest place to hide was Plaguewoods. The carcass of the horse was found off the road, though the criminal was nowhere to be seen.

The death knight dismounted and laid down on the ground. Truth be told, he wasn't even planning to find the escapee. He was just supposed to spend a few days in the woods, taking some time off and then come back with a story of a half-eaten corpse and maybe some bones. It was about sending a message that the law reached everywhere.

He could stay here.

He could just not move, watch time go by, slowly become dirt. Nothing would stop him.

It wasn't a new thought. Ever since he was freed, had struggled to find some purpose in his new life. The only thing that seemed to keep him going was the constant income of tasks. Go there, get that, fight the Horde, help a peasant, catch a criminal. Why was freedom so difficult?

He almost missed the Scourge.

He was awoken from his thoughts by the whinnying of his horse. The thing hadn't sadly wondered off. Funny how it always became so bloody clever when something bad could happen to it.

The source of its distress was smoke, almost invisible in the dimness of the forest.

 _Where there's smoke, there's fire_ , Richard thought.

…..

The Scarlet Crusade was hard to kill, surviving wars, undead and even demonic corruption. If by Scarlet Crusade one means the organization, of course. Individuals were generally as mortal as anyone.

Such as these ones, strewn about in the ruins of their camp. Richard surveyed the carnage. Ghouls, by the looks of it. Maybe something bigger as well. And a lot of them. Mud around the camp was a mess, but it didn't look like any larger group had escaped. He stepped over a burned corpse while circling the mess.

"Blaarhhg"

A ghoul jumped from behind a tree, claws aimed for his face, knocking them both over. Barely having enough time to react, Richard was caught under the creature as it snapped its jaws. Holding it away with one hand he grabbed its head with the other and twisted sharply, almost ripping it from the body. The ghoul went limp. He pushed the corpse off and got up, cleaning the mud from his armor. Finally standing up straight he scanned the area more carefully.

Some bags caught his attention. Ghouls had dragged the bodies around, but he doubted they had been interested in looting the place.

Plus, why was there a single ghoul waiting, not bothering to eat any corpses.

Ice chains shot up into the branches of the tree, caught something and pulled, smashing it into the ground. It was a human.

"Please, have mercy! Mercy!", he yelled, writhing in the mud.

"Why?" Richard asked calmly.

The human seemed stunned. "What?"

"Why should I let you live? I want to give me a reason."

"Uhhh… if you let me go, I will promise to… become a better person…"

"Why would I care about that?" Richard wasn't entirely sure if he was just mocking the man. Undead humor tends to be very practical.

"So you can live on with the knowledge that you have saved a soul?... you know, making you a better person in the process?"

Richard thought for a moment. "That's an interesting concept. Might try it some time." He examined the stranger more closely. A slightly elvish face. Visible scar on the right cheek. Yellow hair.

 _What a small world it is_

"Are you Boris?", he asked.

"Depends who is asking"

Richard kneeling grabbed the man by his collar and smashed him against the tree.

"Me."

Being threatened by a death knight wasn't apparently enough for the stranger.

"Will you get me out of this forest?"

"Sure."

"Then yeah, I'm Boris." Boris weakly lifted his hand as if expecting the death knight to shake it. "Boris Dawnson. Nice to meet you."

"Pleasure is all yours." Richard let go of him. "How'd a criminal end up with Crusaders?"

"Told them a story of being abducted by ghouls. They weren't particularly smart."

"Says a man who fled to Plaguewoods.", Richard marked. "Did any horses make it?" Boris only shook his head.

"Well, you're not riding on my one. I hope you like tognnnnrhg"

Grunting more from surprise that pain, Richard bent his head to see an arrow bristle from his shoulder. Another flew past his head, striking the wood above Boris's head.

Richard turned around to see a woman, clad in red throw away her bow and pull a sword.

"Monster!" she yelled. "Murderer!"

She wasn't technically wrong, but Richard doubted she was referring to his past. He rose his arms as a warning. "Stay back!"

"BURN, you FILTH!". The lone crusader charged with such speed she nearly tripped when Richard sidestepped. The death knight drew his own blade, a black, runed greatsword. It had a set of spikes above the cross guard and some smaller etchings along the blade, but was otherwise unremarkable.

"I wouldn't yell so much, if I were you." Richard warned. "AAieeee!" The crusader responded and charged again.

Sparks flew as the silver and black blade met, metal screeching at contact. The woman continued her assault, hacking with fury. Her smaller blade was lighter and more nimble, giving the death knight only enough time to block.

Hack. Parry.

Slash. Counter.

Stab. Dodge.

The woman was skilled; Richard gave her that. But she would tire. Soon…

"AAAArgggh!" the yell didn't come from the combatants, who turned to see a pack of ghouls rushing towards the camp from all direction, attracted by the sounds of potential food

"Great, see what you did now?" Death knights remark was cut short when the (clearly mad) woman continued her attack. Richard blocked and ran towards the middle of the site, punching a ghoul who came too close and making it fall over. The crusader followed, slashing at undeads and hopping over their corpses. The duel turned into a deadly dance as they spun and turned, exchanging a few blows and fighting the ghouls simultaneously.

The beasts surrounded them in a circle, either confused at the sight or enjoying watching their food prepare itself. One moment the human and death knight fought back to back, then turned and resumed their own agenda. Spells came into play, both Light and Death twisting and twirling around the combatants, like petals of a flower.

Suddenly, it stopped. The pair stood, blades in air, waiting for the next foe. But there wasn't any. The last ghoul had fallen, leaving the site silent again.

Richard took advantage of the lull and knocked the crusaders sword away from her with a mighty blow. Grabbing his sword's blade with his free hand, he struck her in the head with his pommel, finally putting an end to the fight.

….

Richard stood over the unconscious warrior, wondering what to do. Rustling of leaves and a loud thumb followed by cursing indicated that Boris was still alive as well. It was almost impressive how quickly someone could climb a tree when they see ghouls.

"I say we leave her here. Good riddance."

The escapee started rummaging through the few unburned sacks in the camp, butfroze as a loud, unholy howl echoed through the forest, followed by others.

Wolves had long since been scared away by creatures that prowled these woods.

Richard saw his horse return to camp, two long but not deep gashes on its side. Night was falling, and the forest was becoming alive.

He sheathed his sword.

"I think I'm going to give this "mercy" thing a try."


End file.
